


Candace

by bactaqueen



Series: Candace [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: F/M, Magical Healing Cock, Mild Kink, grown-up sex, improvised blindfold, improvised bondage, psychosomatic female sexual arousal disorder, shameless abh, steve rogers: sex yoda
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:45:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,880
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4127304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bactaqueen/pseuds/bactaqueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve got Candace Syndrome and Steve’s a patient problem solver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Candace

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Recognizable characters belong to their respective owners. No profit is earned and no infringement is intended.

The weight of him settles against you, warmer and more comforting than your favorite blanket, and his tongue dips into your mouth to slide along yours. It's a long, lingering kiss. For a moment, you even forget the disappointment and humiliation that prompted it. Then he's breaking away, kissing your lower lip, settling onto the bed next to you. He arranges the sheet over you both in an almost laughable attempt at protecting your modesty and pulls you into his arms. He's like a furnace. And you feel like a failure. Your face burns as hot as he does and all you really want is to get out of bed and leave and maybe never see him again. Probably never see him again. This is embarrassing. 

You should have brought lube. You should have known better. You should have--

He kisses the top of your head and then your temple as he links your fingers. "It's all right," he says, and you have no idea how he can say that with his massive erection still tenting the sheet.

"No, it's not." You bite back a sigh. You really, really like him and this is just unfair. You try to reach for him, shifting your weight and trying to untangle your fingers from his. "I can--"

He shifts his hips, tightening his arms around you to keep you in place. When you look up, he's smiling, and there's nothing on his face or in his eyes to betray that this is anything less than exactly as he said: all right.

"I like holding you," he says. He kisses your forehead.

That shouldn't give you goosebumps, but it does. You start to protest. Holding you wasn't the reason you came over tonight. Dammit, you really hoped...

"And no gentleman gets his before the lady gets hers," he adds firmly, talking over your protest.

You flush.

He kisses you soundly. "This isn't a problem."

But you shake your head. It  _is_  a problem. And it's not even a new problem. "It is."

"It's not a problem for me," he amends. He shrugs.

He's much stronger than you are. He seems much more patient. Fighting out of his arms isn't a good way to waste your strength, you decide, so you give in and let him guide your head to his chest. He accepts it for the capitulation that it is and takes your linked fingers to his mouth. He lips your fingertips and that is... very distracting.

"I'm sorry," you say again, because you feel like you've ruined everything.

"You don't have anything to be sorry for." His words are muffled by your fingers. "But it really bothers you, doesn't it?"

"I should have brought lube."

"Does that help?"

You shrug. It has helped with the sex in the past, but you're pretty sure nothing can help you feeling like less of a woman.

He goes on, "This seems like something that could be common."

Oh, that doesn't help at all. You groan and close your eyes and hide your face against his chest. "It's really common and it totally happens to lots of guys."

"Not to me."

You jerk back and look up at him. He didn't just... He  _did_ , he really did, if that sly grin is anything to go on. You make a face at him.

Isn't he supposed to be a gentleman?

He laughs as he ducks in for another kiss.

***

All right, maybe you've been avoiding him. Your inability to... facilitate... intimacy... (You can't get wet, you can't fucking get wet, fuck the doctors and their coldly clinical assessments. You can't get wet and if you can, you don't stay that way, and you're too busy worrying about that fact to enjoy anything and it sucks so much. Therapy and self-love haven't helped at all and dammit you want your money back from that headshrinking thief.) Well. It just seems like one of those things that could be a deal breaker. In fact, it is one of those things that has been a deal breaker. It's not like Steve doesn't have options. He probably wouldn't even miss you--

You'd glare at yourself if you thought you were looking. That's unfair and you know it. He isn't like that. He didn't complain at all when you asked to take it slow. He didn't kick you out of bed when-- Hell, he didn't even ask you to leave the next morning, just kissed you even with your stinking morning breath, said coffee was ready and the paper would be on the table, please lock up when you leave. He's ridiculous. He's perfect.

You need to dump him.

When your phone rings and you answer and the first thing he says is, "You should come over tonight," it's hardly a surprise. It's Saturday, after all, and as far as you know there haven't been any alien invasions he has to take care of.

But. Still. "I don't know." You want to, but you also don't want a repeat of Wednesday night. Not that everything leading up to... wasn't great, and not that everything after the failure (your failure) wasn't also great, but... "Wouldn't it just be easier if we... you know..."  _Don't?_

He scoffs. "Come over. If things don't go the way we want, they don't go the way we want." He's shrugging and you don't have to see him to know that.

The laugh that spills out before you can stop it is bitter. "If." As if there's even the slightest chance that things might go right.

There's a smile and a hint of mystery in his voice. "I have some ideas."

Ideas. Your heart sinks. If he has ideas, he's been thinking about you. About you and all the ways you're lacking. Your face heats. "I don't know, Steve." Come on, you tell yourself. Just say it.  _No._  You're not sure you can bear his attentions.

You've been operating under the assumption that Steve's a nice guy. He's not nice when he says, "You've been avoiding me." In fact, it seems like he's playing downright dirty.

"I-- Hmph." That's not fair, you want to say.  _Wouldn't you avoid me if you couldn't get it up?_  But that's a cruel thing to say, because you'd be just as kind and understanding if your positions were reversed, so you settle for sighing through your nose while you wonder what to even say to that.

"It's all right. Just come over tonight."

"Do you get that this is embarrassing for me?"

"Why?"

_Why?_  Why is this embarrassing? He's going to make you say it? You wish he was more of a jerk. Then you could hang up on him and never speak to him again without feeling guilty. "Because..." But there are things you can't say, not over the phone, not in public.  _I should be able to get wet for Captain Fucking America. I should be able to stay wet. At my age, I should have had penetrative sex that didn't fucking hurt._  Your face heats. You're not sure you could say those things to him even if you were alone. "Just because."

"That's not an answer," he says gently.

"Why are you the one so willing to talk about this?"

He's silent for so long you think the call dropped.  _Of course. Of course!_  You check the screen, but the time is still going, and great, you think, your defensiveness has finally pushed him to give up.

You wince. "Steve?" you prompt, and you are too old and too great to sound that tentative.

Everyone's right. Sex ruins everything.

"I like you," he says. "I want to be with you. This is bothering you and it shouldn't. I get the idea that this isn't new for you."

Your face heats. "It doesn't matter." The last thing you want to do is talk about your prior sex life with a guy raised in the thirties. Especially since it basically consists of pain, failure, and really bad breakups.

"It matters to me. Dinner will be ready in forty-five minutes. Don't be late."

***

It's not like you haven't been here before. Your last date really went above and beyond orchestrating the "right" atmosphere, so when you knocked on Steve's door, you had expectations. Candlelight and oysters and chocolate and white wine, maybe. Marvin Gaye on the stereo and a stack of softcore porn DVDs sitting on the entertainment credenza. Maybe even KY waiting on the nightstand in his bedroom. Things he'd learn from the first page of results if he Googled "how can I get my girlfriend in the mood?" Predictable things. And all of them totally ineffective.

You weren't expecting comfort food in the form of homemade potato soup and fresh bread (he told you not to look so impressed and showed you the breadmaker, but the man made you fresh bread and didn't even raise an eyebrow when you ate the last slice, you were impressed). An emergency stash of Christmas red taper candles under the sink in the kitchen were the only candles in the whole apartment. There was one DVD: a rental, waiting to be returned and waiting on the table by the front door. It wasn't porn. When did Beach Blanket Bingo even come out?

After a dessert of chocolate-chip cookies--not homemade, he admitted sheepishly, but picked up from the bakery a few blocks over--he started clearing the table.

"Time to clean up."

"Guests shouldn't have to help clean up," you said.

The look he'd given you had you out of your seat and gathering your dirty dishes and following him silently into the kitchen. His real superpower isn't super strength or agility or photographic memory or anything else you couldn't remember. His real superpower is the ability to make you want to wipe that disapproving look right off his square-jawed face, regardless of what it takes.

Even if that means washing the dishes.

At least it didn't take long. He'd clearly cleaned up behind himself as he'd gone. The stock pot was already dry in the dish rack and he directed you to put it away before he handed you a towel and stationed you on drying duty. For his part, he plunged his hands into too-hot water and started scrubbing.

Minutes later, he pulls the stopper and dries his hands as the water drains away.

You're putting away the last bowl, back to him and arm stretched over your head. He moves up behind you, rests his hands on your hips, and kisses the back of your shoulder.

"I haven't read the news yet. Do you mind?"

"No one invaded," you say.

He smiles, turning his face and kissing the side of your neck. He lingers there, breath warm on and lips barely grazing your skin. "That's good to know."

You turn straight into his arms. It's an easy hug and an even easier kiss. He's big and crowding you back against the counter, but there's nothing suffocating about the way he holds you close.

"Living room?" he says.

You try not to frown up at him. You had expectations--he's not meeting any of them. If this is a game, you're not certain how to play. "Sure. I need to use the bathroom, first."

That smile is not the reaction you anticipated. "All right." He backs away and starts toward the living room without you.

His smile doesn't make a bit of sense until you're washing your hands and you see it. The bottle is red, absurdly cheerful. You've seen it before, on the shelf in the family planning section of the grocery store, promising more than you believe it can deliver. Face hot, you carry it out to him.

Steve is on the couch, tucked into the corner against the arm, oversized tablet in hand. He looks up when you stop in front of him and when he sees what you're holding, he smiles. "You found it. What do you think?"

"You can't be serious."

He frowns. "Why not?"

Your face is still hot and your throat is tight. This is it. This is his plan. Lube? Well. You've got lube. "I brought my own," you say, and all right so you tip your chin a little defiantly.

His smile returns and his shoulders ease. "We can use that instead, then." He's so perfectly reasonable and accommodating.

It's infuriating. "You want me to go get it?" You gesture toward the front door, where you left your purse with the travel bottle of lube in its zippered pouch, tucked in next to a clean pair of panties. "We'll lube you right up and you can slide on in."

Oh, the frown is back, and his eyes flash. "That wasn't at all what I was thinking," he says slowly, and his voice is serious. He looks at you and seems to be considering.

He's looking right through you, that's what he's doing. You're blushing all the way to the tops of your ears. You're being ridiculous. There's no reason to react this way. He is being perfectly reasonable and so accommodating and you... you're acting like a crazy person. It's not fair of you to force him deal with your issues. You set the bottle on the end table and shake your head.

"I'm sorry, Steve. Maybe I should go. Dinner was great, thanks for--"

"Please don't leave," he says quietly.

"Steve..." You feel a little bit helpless and a lot confused and even more embarrassed. He's only trying to be nice, you chide yourself. "I--"

He pats the couch beside him. "I'm not in any hurry. Just come here."

You just look at him. He's steady and unflinching, waiting. If you bolt right now, you're going to disappoint him. You want to bolt. You want to get your bag and shoes and leave and never see him again, because this is just-- He hasn't even done anything and you already feel overwhelmed and--

You move toward the couch.

He reaches for you and cups the back of your neck to draw you into a sweet kiss. Then he's pulling you down and you're stretched out on your back on his couch, your head pillowed on his thigh and your hands folded over your belly and... this is not what you expected at all. You stare up at the ceiling, perplexed.

Clearly, having expectations for the evening is not going well for you.

He runs his fingers through your hair, short nails scratching lightly at your scalp, as he reads. As he reads, and you worry, and try not to fidget too much. He shifts his weight and takes his hand away from your hair. There's a soft click from the tablet as he selects another link, and then his fingers are back, moving gently over the shell of your ear, the backs of his knuckles skating down your neck. You close your eyes. He's just touching you. Petting you like... like... like you're some kind of pet. If you could slump while flat on your back, you'd do it. He's touching you without any real purpose. Even when the tips of his fingers edge into the collar of your shirt and skim your collarbone, he's just touching.

Except he's not and you know it and you can already feel yourself closing down, mentally pulling away from the moment. You can't even enjoy this.

You can't even let yourself enjoy this. Frustration wells up inside you. Oh, you know how it'll go. This isn't a question of physiology, not since you switched from hormonal birth control to the copper IUD. This is all in your head. This is all because you can't let yourself go, because you can't trust, because because because... You stifle a sigh and shut your eyes and try to focus on your breathing and the warmth of his fingertips swirling in the hollow of your throat. You want to enjoy this. You do.  _You do._

"Stop thinking," he murmurs.

You blink your eyes open and look up at him. "What?"

"Stop thinking." He's not looking at you, he's still reading. You can see his eyes moving back and forth across the screen. He works open the top few buttons of your shirt with clever fingers and traces nonsense patterns on the skin of your upper chest. "Stop worrying."

"I'm not--"

His eyebrows go up, furrowing his forehead and-- Dammit, he's nearly a hundred years old, why is that cute?

You don't stifle this sigh. "Maybe I should start drinking," you grumble. You haven't done that since college, but you do remember a few drunken nights when sex hurt less.

He runs one fingertip down the center of your chest, just between your breasts, to the edge of your bra. "If you think it'll help," he says mildly. "I'd prefer you sober, for what it's worth."

"Sober hasn't worked for us yet."

"Let's give it one more try before we resort to getting you drunk."

You close your eyes. You can't look at his perfectly reasonable face anymore. "Or we could just give up." So what if his hand is down your shirt? You could totally break up with him right now if you wanted.

"I don't like to give up." He glances down at you, frowning. "Do you want to give up? Is that what you've done before?"

You bite the insides of your cheeks. No. No, you really don't want to give up, because he's nice and Jesus Christ just look at him, but... He's still looking at you, waiting, so you mumble, "Guys don't like to put a lot of work in." Like that's some kind of explanation.

Oh, there it is. There's his disapproving face again. "Maybe thinking of it as work is part of the problem."

You snort and don't care that it's not even a little bit attractive. "When did you turn into sex Yoda?"

His lips twitch. "I don't know what that means." He sets the tablet aside.

That's your cue, you think so you push yourself up and half-turn and his hands are there to pull you into his lap. You settle on his thighs while he runs his hands up and down your back.

"Yoda, from  _Star Wars_?"

He brings his hands between your bodies and starts opening the buttons of your shirt. "Is that a movie I haven't seen yet?" Oh, that tone of voice.

You shake your head. He's not fooling you, but you'll let him play. "What have you been doing with your time off?"

"Spending it with this lady I kind of like."

You fight a smile.

He grins up at you.

"You're ridiculous," you tell him, deadpan. "I don't know why anyone puts up with you."

"I don't, either," he admits, and leans in to nuzzle between your breasts. He wraps his arms around you and takes a deep breath. You put your fingers in his hair. "I mean, you have to wonder about a guy who fights supervillains in tights and scalemail." His tongue flicks out, tasting the skin over your breastbone.

You close your eyes. "At least you're adapting well to the twenty-first century."

He pushes his hands under your shirt and slides his fingertips up your spine. At your bra, he tucks his thumbs between satin and skin. He turns his face just enough to kiss the swell of your breast. "You girls sure wear a lot less underwear these days."

You laugh. Steve Rogers has his face between your tits and he's making fun of himself for you. You tug his hair so he'll tip his head back and look down at him, at his bright blue eyes and that sweet smile. You kiss him soundly.

"I like you," you tell him.

"That's good enough for me." He steals another kiss and opens the hooks of your bra. "Can you leave your shirt on but take this off?" He splays his fingers across your back.

You raise an eyebrow at him. "Oh, you haven't seen Star Wars, but you've had time to watch  _Flashdance_?"

"What's  _Flashdance_?" That smile is positively indecent.

He's playing you a little and you can't even care. You pull away from him just enough to reach into the short sleeves of your shirt. His hands slide to your waist and he watches, plain interest on his face, as you slide the straps down your arms. You tug your bra off through the open front of your shirt and drop it on the end table. His gaze drops then from your face, the corners of his lips go up, and he sighs happily. He wraps his arms around you and presses his face to your chest once more.

This is nice. You run your fingers through his hair and close your eyes. His thick arms are locked around you and he's stroking your sides with his thumbs. He peppers your breastbone, your breasts, with kisses. He pulls you closer and you can feel him breathing in, feel the test of his tongue against the side of your breast. He's in no hurry at all.

You try not to be, because this is nice. The catch of his stubble against your skin, the way he seems to just simply enjoy-- But the longer the silence goes on, the more you start to worry.

He must feel you tense. He tips his head back, point of his chin resting on your breastbone, and he says, "Hey."

You look down at him.

"You got somewhere you need to be?"

"No..."

"Then stop worrying. I can hear your brain going."

"But what if you have to leave?" It's happened before. Your second date, actually. His little communicator went off and he paid for dinner and kissed you goodbye and the next time you saw him, it was on headline news in full costume, smashing the shield down on some alien's head.

He shrugs. "I'll tie you to the bed before I go."

You blink at him. That... You're going to stop expecting things now.

He grins.

"You don't have any restraints." At least, you're pretty sure he doesn't. Not ones for recreational use, anyway. He probably keeps a pair of handcuffs in one of those pockets on his uniform... That's really beside the point.

"I have ties. A friend told me those work in a pinch." He rubs his beard stubble along the side of one breast. His eyebrows are up and there's a light in those blue eyes of his. "Interested?"

You... are. You clench your jaw and firm your lips into a line. You are and you're not sure you should be. Can you really get kinky with Captain America? That just seems wrong.

He laughs and reaches up. He pulls you into a kiss, long and slow and so sweet it aches. His fingers work through your hair, loosening the braid, scratching at your scalp. He breaks the kiss but doesn't pull away.

"You want me to tie you to my bed? You'd be entirely at my mercy."

"You seem like a merciful guy."

His eyes flash and his smile changes. "You've only seen me nice."

A shiver works through you. He kisses you again, tongue stroking over your lips before he slides it into your mouth. He kisses you until you're breathless and while he lets you catch your breath, he licks over your lips.

"I think I'd enjoy tying you to the bed."

Okay, it's been a while since you had an orgasm, but that... almost got you. "Yeah. Yeah, um, me, too."

He smiles. He slides a hand up to between your shoulder blades to bring you closer. He kisses and nips down your neck and noses aside your shirt to mouth at the swell of your breast. You card your fingers through his hair and scratch the tips of your nails down his neck and rub at his shoulders through the shirt.

Wait.

The shirt.

"How come I'm the only one naked?"

"You're not naked," he says, voice muffled by your breasts. "But you're the only one who'll be naked for a while, so don't even think about it."

You frown. Not fair. Seeing him with his shirt off is one of the best parts of dating him. "You know, I thought you were a nice guy. I thought you liked girls with brains."

"I do." He turns his face up. His eyes are already a little dark and if you shift your hips, you can feel the line of his erection against you, through your jeans and his pants. "But sometimes brains get in the way."

"Of sex?"

"Of enjoying yourself," he corrects.

"Sex is enjoyable." You roll your eyes. "So I hear."

"Stop thinking and you could enjoy it with me."

You frown at him but only to keep from smiling. "Sex Yoda."

He grins.

***

In the bedroom, he strips you all the way down to your panties, but he only takes off his shirt. He guides you to the center of the bed, on your back, and leaves you there. The bed shakes when he rolls off of it. You start to sit up, at least, but he turns at the foot of the bed and points a thick finger at you.

"Stay."

You cock an eyebrow at him. "Do I look like a dog to you?"

"More like a cat," he says. "Be a good pussy."

You flop back down. "Steve. Don't talk to women. Ever."

"That won't be a problem." He turns to his dresser and begins rummaging in one of the top drawers. "You're the only one I don't work with who'll speak to me."

You remind yourself to breathe and try to relax as he searches for whatever it is he wants. In your peripheral vision, you can see the lube on the nightstand, under the lamp, the bottle he chose red and ominous in the bright overhead light. The little bottle of your preferred lube right beside it looks downright dainty.

There's the scrape of the drawer closing, and then the light goes off, plunging the room into the dim golden glow from the lamp only. He's coming back toward the bed, three different dies in his hands.

You blink and swallow hard. "You were serious."

"Did you think I wasn't?" He stops beside the bed and drops two of the ties onto your bare stomach. He reaches for your hand.

He doesn't fumble or hesitate. He just secures your wrist with a tidy quick-release knot, not too tight and not too loose, and he knots the other end of the tie around the center bar of his brass headboard. He repeats the process with a second tie and you're stretched in the center of the bed, wrists over your head, looking up at him. There's still one more tie.

"What's the last one for?"

He picks it up, letting the ends dangle and trail across the top of your chest and along your breasts. He's not looking at you, but at your pebbling nipples. "How do you feel about being blindfolded?"

Your breath hitches. Bound and blind. You could tell him no. Probably should--this isn't you. Is it? You know you could tell him to release you right now (hell, the quick-release knots make it so you could release yourself) and he would. But there's heat gathering in your belly and lower.

"I think I'd like that," you say softly.

The smile he gives you is like a gift.

He leans down and kisses you, lightly. Then he covers your eyes with the tie--soft, gray, maybe silk--and you close your eyes under it as he knots it at the side of your head. You must look ridiculous. But there's something freeing about it. You breathe out and start to relax. You don't have to see him. You won't have to see the disappointment on his face.

"How are you doing?" His voice sounds richer.

"I'm good."

"Nothing hurts?" His fingers skim your arm from wrist to shoulder.

"No."

"Great." The bed dips. He straddles you, you can feel his knees brush your thighs, but he doesn't settle over you. "Roll over."

You do, carefully, and your wrists cross over your head. He splays a hand on your back for balance and leans forward to adjust the pillow beneath your cheek.

"How's that?"

"Good." And it is good. It seems quieter and more peaceful in the darkness behind the blindfold. Your sense of touch seems sharper--you can feel the short crisp hairs on the insides of his knees against your thighs, you can feel the warmth of his fingertips on your back like the pulse of his heart. Your hearing is sharper, too, or maybe that's just that the sound of your own blood rushing in your head seems louder right now.

"Wonderful."

Fingers skate down your sides, a delicate touch that raises goosebumps on your bare flesh. The bed shifts and his breath is warm against your skin the instant before he touches his lips to your shoulder.

"You trust me?" He kisses his way across your shoulders.

"Of course I do."

"Just not when you can see me." He nuzzles the back of your neck.

You must make a face, because he chuckles.

"I wouldn't trust me if I had to look at me, either."

"I cannot believe you."

He runs his hand down your back and over the curve of your ass, down between your thighs. Thick fingertips brush over your cunt through your panties.

You gasp.

"I can't believe  _you_. Normally, the only women I get to tie up are trying to kill me. I like this a lot more."

He kisses across your shoulders and down your spine, light, wet kisses that awaken nerve endings you didn't even know were sleeping. Every sensation seems to go straight to your center. He cups your cunt, fingers gentle. There's just enough pressure to warm you up, not enough to do anything beyond that. He doesn't push. He doesn't spread his fingers. He doesn't seek the leg of your panties or even the waist in order to touch skin. He just... touches you. Kisses you. Lulls you into a drifting consciousness where all that seems to matter is feeling.

Until he pulls his hand away and shifts to straddle you facing the other direction.

"Hey." You protest before you can stop yourself and blush. You're glad for the blindfold, the cool pillow to hide your face in, and the fact that he probably can't see you. Don't get greedy, you chide yourself.

"Hmm?" He picks one of your feet and starts at the heel, thumbs digging into flesh. He works slowly over the arch of your foot, over the ball, to the toes and back again.

That... Okay. That feels a lot better than it should. You're entirely too breathless when you ask, stupidly, "What-- What are you doing?"

And there's a smile in his voice that's all amused indulgence. "What does it feel like I'm doing?"

Your face is never so hot as when you're with him. Mom's old warning--"stop that or your face'll freeze just like that"--comes to mind and if you go through the rest of your life with a permanent blush, it's all his fault. You're so, so glad he can't see you right now. "You don't have to--"

"I don't have to do anything," he agrees, perfectly reasonable even now. "You think I'm doing something I don't want to do?" He shifts his weight and there's a hard heat pressed against your calf, barely restrained by the soft lounge pants. "This isn't all about you, you know."

Oh... You're not sure what to think about that. At least you're smart enough to keep silent instead of saying something else you might regret.

Steve is in no rush and makes no secret of it. His hands are strong and calloused and feel just right. He could make a career out of this if he ever wanted to give up superheroing, you think, bones melting and body warming a little more with each press and sweep of his thumbs. He lets your feet fall back to the bed and works his way up your calves, tickling a little behind your knees and laughing quietly when you squirm under him. Then he's shifting again, turning back around, straddling your lower legs. He runs his hands firmly up your thighs, long strokes that have you parting your thighs just a little more each time, that have you arching your back in invitation.

It's an invitation he doesn't accept. His deliberate ignorance makes you want his touch that much more.

He shuffles forward on his knees until his thighs bracket your hips. His hands smooth up your back from the dip of your waist to your shoulders. Idly, he rubs your neck with just his fingertips as his weight shifts again. There's the  _click_  of the bottle cap coming open. There's a wet  _squish_  and a quiet  _pop_. Another  _click_. He lifts his hand from your neck and for long moments, there's nothing. No sound you can hear. No movement you can sense.

There's nothing but the sound of your breathing and of his, nothing but the sound of your own heart beating too loud in your ears.

He lays his hands on your back and they're wet with the gel--but not cold, and it shouldn't be so touching that he warmed it before he put his hands on you, but it is. The scent of ylang-ylang is mild but unmistakable.

"All right?" he asks quietly.

"Yes."

"Good." There's a smile in his voice.

He starts at your neck and works over your shoulders, down your back. You let yourself drift, lulled again into a sensation like floating. This is probably the most relaxed you've been in a long, long time--and definitely the most relaxed you've ever been with another person. The pressure of expectation slips away, banished like the tension in your muscles as they seem to melt under his hands.

When he rubs just his thumbs the length of your spine and nuzzles behind your ear and breathes at you to turn over, you comply without hesitation.

He kisses you. His mouth is warm, soft lips parted, tongue gentle. He kisses you for long moments, just kisses you, bracing himself over you on his hands in the bed to either side of you, kisses you until you're breathless. You can feel the weight of his hard cock, still confined in his pants, against your lower belly. A shiver of anticipation works through you.

Anticipation. Not dread.

He kisses your chin and along your jaw. He lips at your earlobe and sighs.

"I wish you could see how good you look."

For the first time, you actually believe those words.

His hips shift, his cock sliding against your belly. The realization hits you so hard and so fast you gasp. Your submission turns him on. Your trust turns him on. He really isn't doing this just for you--he wants it, too. He wants  _you_. You tug at the restraints, feel the bite of the ties digging into your wrists. There's fresh heat flaring and curling low inside you.

He kisses down your throat, and something has changed. He has purpose you can sense now. You feel the slide of his teeth followed by the glide of his tongue. He nips at your collarbone and swirls his tongue into the hollow of your throat. You push closer to him and further expose the line of your throat.

He's never left a mark on you. You wonder would it would take for him to do that.

Steve sweeps his fingers up your sides and over your breasts. He plucks at your nipples. It seems an eternity he keeps at that, mouthing at your neck and collarbones, teasing your nipples to aching points with just his fingers. Your back arches, chest thrust up, and he weighs your breasts with his hands cupped around them, drawing his thumbs back and forth over smooth hot skin.

"More?"

You nod.

"Mmm. Good."

He moves down, across the top of your chest, and further, until he's using wet lips and sharp teeth and soothing tongue over your breasts, one and then the other, all over parts that go neglected in favor of nipples before he ever moves inward. He sucks and bites and licks at one nipple while he tweaks and pinches and rolls the other, back and forth until you're arching up, until you're writhing closer, until you're actually asking him...

"Please." You don't even know what you want. More. Less.  _Something_  else.

"Soon," he murmurs.

He palms your sides and slides his hands down to your hips. His lips trail down the center of your belly. He pauses to dip his tongue into your navel; you laugh breathlessly and feel his answering smile against your skin. He holds your hips, thumbs laid along your hipbones, fingertips dug into the flesh of your flank, and he runs his lips along the waist of your panties, breath hot. He kisses your mound. Just kisses. Kisses your hips just south of his thumbs, kisses the tops of your thighs. He kisses the apex of your slit through your panties.

"I can feel it," he sighs. He nuzzles at you, cheeks brushing high on the insides of your thighs. "We're coming back to this," he promises darkly.

Then he's moving down again, the callouses of his fingers raked down your thighs, his mouth hot on your skin. No inch of you escapes his attention, goes untouched or unkissed or unlicked or unbitten.

By the time he sits up, straddling your calves, you're trembling all over.

"Steve," you manage.  _Stop. Don't stop. Do something. Let me go._  You don't even know.

He doesn't say anything. He just hooks his fingers into the waist of your panties and peels them down.

His fingers skim from your ankles to your knees. He wraps his hands around your knees and gently parts your legs. You've never felt so naked. The bed shakes a little and his weight shifts. He presses a kiss to the inside of one knee.

You gasp and hold your breath.

"Do you want me to stop?" He kisses your inner thigh.

_Yes_ , because isn't that the right answer? And  _no_ , because you've come so far and you can feel it, feel the heat pooling in your cunt, and you want--you  _want_  so much.

"It's up to you," you whisper, because it's a compromise and the easy way out. It's not  _no, you need to stop now_ , because you don't want him to. But it's not  _please, please keep going, please don't stop_  because you're not brave enough for that one.

He exhales hotly, fingers clenching at your knee. He shakes his head just a little.

His lips brush up your inner thigh.

His tongue is soft, impossibly soft, lapping at you. The bed shudders again; he must be settled more comfortably now, because you can feel his shoulders between your thighs. The point of his tongue slides along the seam of your cunt and you can't breathe.

Steve backs off just a little. He guides one of your knees over his shoulder, your heel against his back, and he pins your other knee back against the bed. You're wide open now. There's no hiding. You know he can see everything. You can feel his breath coming in hot little puffs against you, feel the comparative cool of the air around you both.

He makes a noise like a low, pleased groan. "I knew it."

You're blushing again. Your face is so hot you're worried his tie might catch fire. The urge to apologizes bubbles up and you bite your tongue, fighting it. There's nothing to apologize for. That's what this is about.

You're wet. You're  _wet_  and you can feel it and there's so much of it.

Then an apology is the furthest thing from your mind, and his tongue is there, again, impossibly soft, and  _everything_  is wet.

You rise to meet him.

He takes it for the encouragement that it is. He presses closer, opening his mouth wider. He licks all over, presses his lips to your clitoris and spells his name against it. Pressure builds, sliding down your spine, filling you up. He pushes you closer and closer to the edge. The point of his tongue. The flat of it. It's unpredictable and wonderful and you're close, so close. Your back arches, hips thrust, and you're tugging at the ties. If you could just get your hands free--get your fingers into his hair--hold him still, dammit--

He pulls away.

You cry out, shock and protest.

He kisses over your hip. Up your belly. He pushes your breasts together and licks over your nipples. He presses his mouth to yours, slides his tongue into your mouth, and swallows your moan. You can taste yourself on his lips, on his tongue, feel your slick on his chin.

You pull against the ties against the ties. You want to wrap your arms around him, pull him close, lick the taste of yourself out of his mouth and off his face.

"I knew it," he murmurs into your mouth.

"Steve,  _please_."

There distant-sounding  _click_ , but you're barely aware because he's kissing you again. He's all you can feel, him and the need you have for him. He strokes his tongue over yours and his hand slides between your legs. His knuckles graze your cunt and just that is enough to make you rock against his hand, but he's not touching you, he's touching himself.

The head of his cock is wet when he rubs it along your slit. Promise. Warning.

Your breath hitches.

He slides in.

He doesn't shove. He doesn't work himself in. He doesn't push inch by inch. It doesn't burn. It doesn't hurt. He rolls his hips and his cock slides into your welcoming cunt. Greedy for him, for every inch of him, for the way he stretches you, for the way he fills you up. His body settles over yours and he's inside you, sheathed to the hilt. You gasp. You're trembling beneath him and you can feel him.

You're glad for the blindfold. Tears prick your eyes. There's such an immense sense of relief already.

He digs his elbows into the bed and puts his hands under your head. He kisses your cheeks, your chin, your lips. He kisses your mouth again and again and his hips shift and he's sliding out of you. He's pushing back in.

You're babbling about how he feels when he lets you.

"Put your legs around me," he murmurs.

And you do, you wrap your legs around his waist and that opens you up. When he thrusts in, he goes deeper, bottoming out and it's-- it's--

He grinds into you just so and  _Jesus Christ that must be what a supernova looks like up close_.

It goes on and on and on. He doesn't move, just stays pressed inside you, pressed against you, and you're still shaking. His open mouth rests against your cheekbone. He's panting, trembling with the effort of holding himself still. You feel more than hear his moan; you're still shuddering, your inner walls still in spasms around him.

He presses his face to your neck and groans, "Oh, God."

Then he's moving again, sliding deep, deeper, drawing out and pushing in and you're shaking, tiny aftershocks rolling through you. It's hard to breathe. You feel like you could vibrate out of your skin. There's a hitch of his breath, his teeth sunk into the curve of your shoulder, and he's coming. He's coming and you can feel it, feel the heat of him inside you, feel the shudder that rolls through him, feel the jerk of his hips.

He collapses over you, warmer and heavier and just as limp as any blanket. Your arms, stretched over your head, are starting to ache. He's so heavy it's a struggle to breathe. You don't want to move. You don't want  _him_  to move.

He plants his face between your breasts, mouth open, and you feel his breathing slow. It's a long time before he moves at all. When he does, it's to shift up. He kisses your collarbone and moves his hips to pull out of you. It's too much. It's way, way too much, you're still too sensitive; you turn your face to the side and bite your lips to stifle the moan.

He kisses your cheek. The bed dips lower at your side when he shifts his weight to one hand. He tugs away the blindfold. You blink against the too-bright light, but when you can see again, he's grinning at you.

"That was kind of nice," he says.

You blink twice. You groan and close your eyes, head back. "Oh my god. I cannot  _believe_  you."

He laughs. He moves forward and kisses you, slow and sweet and deep. "I'm not a matter of faith," he says against your lips. He smiles into another kiss. "Do you want me to untie you?"

You nod.

He reaches up. The quick-release knots just require quick tugs, and he's got both your wrists in his hand. He brings them to his mouth and kisses the faint red marks, looking momentarily apologetic, but he doesn't protest at all when you wrap your arms around his shoulders. He rolls you both to your sides, arms around you, and keeps going until he's got you draped over his chest.

You fold your arms across his chest and rest your chin on your forearm.

He looks thoroughly pleased with himself. "That wasn't so bad." He runs his fingers through your hair.

You laugh. "Proud of yourself?"

"Mmm." He nods and lets his head fall back. He tucks one arm under his head. "I think we should get some of those padded cuffs. Maybe a real blindfold, too."

You hide your face against his chest. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I don't think I'm being ridiculous." He strokes your cheek. "Ridiculous is wondering what you'd look like in those shoes you wear for work and tied down over my dining table. I was just talking about some wrist cuffs and a better-fitting blind."

Oh, there's the blushing again. "Steve..."

"Come on." He raises his head and urges yours up, too. He's smiling at you. There's something different in his eyes, something softer. "You liked that." He tips your face up and brushes his thumb over your lower lip. "I know you did."

It's really hard to lie to him when you're both naked. You settle for a tentative, "That was a lot of work for you."

He snorts. "Yeah, that was a real hardship."

You roll your eyes. "Why do I let you talk?"

His fingers slide through your hair, around to cup the back of your head. He draws you up, closer, and his tongue flicks out over your lips. Just before he pulls you into a kiss, he says, "Next time, you can tie me up."


End file.
